


Longing to Linger 'til Dawn

by Anonymous_ID



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Breeding, Come Sharing, Come Swallowing, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Blow Jobs, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Magical Pregnancy, Mpreg, Multi, Parent/Child Incest, Past Underage, Pregnancy Kink, Sexual Inexperience, Sibling Incest, Teen Pregnancy, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 03:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13402260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_ID/pseuds/Anonymous_ID
Summary: several people have asked for a sequel to my SPN kink-meme fill "Dream a Little Dream of Me" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/11783910?view_adult=true), in which John knocks Dean up and Sam spies on the whole thing.  It's mostly porn, so you can get the gist without reading the first one, but you probably should.  This is equally wrong and filthy, so consider yourselves warned.  Read the tags, consider what you're comfortable with.As with "Dream a Little Dream," I have tagged it as rape/noncon due to the age of the participants, rather than to any explicit non-consensual actions, but you are warned! There may be more chapters





	Longing to Linger 'til Dawn

By the time September rolls around and Sam has to start listening for the school bus again, Dean’s belly is swollen and undeniable.  Sam can feel the taut curve of it under Dean’s soft t-shirts when he curls up next to his brother after Daddy has left their bed.  Sam watched Dean grow all summer, peeking under the kitchen door when the moon is full, seeing Daddy wake Dean with his kisses.  When Sam had first started spying it had taken Daddy ages to work into Dean’s body—so muck kissing and sucking and petting and whispering that Sam had fallen asleep a few times, waiting on the cold kitchen floor.  Sometimes he’d wake when Dean made the quick, gaspy sound that Sam now knows means Daddy is inside him.  Other times, he wouldn’t wake up until Daddy was already moving enough to make the bed squeak.  Those times, he’d barely been able to see his brother, just Dean’s fingers clawing at the rippling muscles of Daddy’s back.  That had changed over the summer.  Dean grew bolder as he grew bigger.  Now, when the moon is full, it is Dean clambering on top of Daddy, riding him slower and slower each month, and Daddy just indulges him, smiling tolerantly and running his hands over Dean’s ever-larger abdomen.

Daddy leaves for a hunt the second week of September—something urgent, lots of late-night cellphone conversations with Bobby.  “Be back before the full moon,” he says, looking at Dean like it’s a promise he means to keep. And then, his attention shifts: “Look after your brother,” he tells Sam.  Usually, it’s the other way around.

So now it’s Sammy who climbs into the big bed at the end of the day.  He sleeps in Dean’s spot, though, making Dean settle on the inside of the bed, closer to the wall.  If anything comes for Dean, it’ll have to get through Sam first.  And Sam suspends one of Dad’s big flannel shirts from the rickety string that serves as a curtain rod.  He knows just how brightly lit the bed can be, and just how much you can see if you’re watching carefully.  He doesn’t want to share that with anyone.   Of course, Sam doesn’t have to watch anymore.  Now he can loop his arm over his brother’s widened hip, splay his hand so he can feel the baby wriggle and kick.  Dean will roll onto his back, pull up down the old shirt he sleeps in, let Sam mouth his tender nipples.  This isn’t so different from how they’d lay when Daddy had gone out for his cigarette, but now, of course, there’s no need for Dean to rush Sam back to the kitchen when he senses Daddy returning.  So he doesn’t.  He lays there with Sam’s greedy mouth suckling his tits.  Before long, Sammy’s little hips start twitching in time with his mouth. Dean’s not even sure his brother realizes what he’s doing ‘til Dean himself works his thigh between Sammy’s, gives him something to rock against.

That makes Sammy pull back, legs still entwined with Dean’s, but staring, slightly shocked.  Dean can just make out his wide eyes and spit-shiny lips gleaming in the light that sneaks in around the edges of the flannel shirt.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Dean whispers and lets his eyes drift shut, like he couldn’t care less what Sam does next.  It won’t do to make Sam feel self-conscious.  Dean idly rubs his stomach—damn, he’s getting _big_ —and, sure enough, after a little hesitation, he feels Sam’s weight settle next to him again.  Dean shivers at the feel of Sam’s hot breath, but he resists the urge to lean into it. He doesn’t open his eyes until Sammy latches on to his nipple again. 

Sammy spills the second night—with nothing to stop him, he just rocks and rocks against Dean’s leg, cock thickening until he spurts.  “S-sorry,” he pants, trying clumsily to untangle himself from Dean.  “I didn’t, uhm…”

“Shh…” Dean soothes.  “Don’t worry ‘bout it. It’s good, actually…”  He reaches up to brush Sammy’s sweaty hair off his forehead. Gotta get Sam a haircut before Dad gets back. Kid’s blushing so hard Dean can feel the heat rising off him.

“But—I got it, uhm, on you.”

And sure enough, with two of them squeezed on the bed, Sam’s twisting had rucked Dean’s shirt up over his belly.  Dean can feel the strings of cum cooling thick and tacky against his stretched abdomen.  It should be disgusting.

It’s not. 

“Whatever,” Dean replies, and just to prove it, he drags on finger through the thickest glob, smearing the cum up to his bellybutton.  That area has been very sensitive lately and Dean writhes when Sam suddenly drops his head to lick up the trail his finger has left behind.   It becomes a game…Sam tonguing in the wake of Dean’s finger, Dean leading where he wants: up and around his already-swollen nipples, down around the heavy curve of his belly, down, down…

Dean’s cock is kinda stubby, thick.  Sam has watched his brother so much, he feels like he knows it, even before he pushes Dean’s oversized sweats down to his knees. His small, soft balls look particularly vulnerable under the firm swell of his stomach. Sam kind of wants to hold them.  So he does, and Dean’s hips lift and he makes the same needy noise that he does when Daddy pushes into him for the second or third time in one night.  Sam rests his cheek against Dean’s belly so he can admire the way Dean’s cock and balls look nestled in his big palm.  He squeezes Dean gently, feels the baby shift as Dean moves under him.  Dean’s hand comes down to stroke his hair. Sam always gets sleepy after he cums—twice, he’d fallen asleep on the floor after jacking off listening to Dean and Daddy groaning and panting, his hand still tucked inside his pajamas.  He feels a similar sort of lassitude now, against the warm bulk of his brother’s body, the soothing feel of fingers against his scalp.  He’s almost asleep when something pops into his head.

“Dean?”

“Hmm?”

“Why’s it good that I, uh…?”

“Came all over me?”

“Dean!” Sam manages to sound shocked and disapproving, the way he does whenever Dean says something to embarrass him.  The fact that they’re both half-naked in the bed where Dean got knocked up seems to make no difference to Sammy’s overdeveloped sense of propriety.  It’s cute.

“Shut up, jerk!” Dean says fondly, and rolls onto his side.  Sam nearly tumbles on top of him before he gets his hand free.  He curls up next to his brother, sleepy again, and almost gone before he remembers: “So…why’s it good?”

“You can’t have babies ‘til you’re old enough to cum.”

Dean says it matter-of-factly, like this is something obvious. He remembers how Sam hates to admit he doesn’t know something.  And, sure enough, Sam says, “Oh, yeah.  Right.”

They don’t talk anymore.  Sam is behind Dean and, in a moment, he’s got one arm curved protectively around Dean’s belly.  He thumb twiddles with Dean’s belly button, the way he used to absentmindedly play with the nose on that old stuffed dog he’d drag into Dean’s bed when he was a toddler scared of thunderstorms. He can’t know he’s landed on one of the odd, inexplicable patches of sensitivity that Dean’s been noticing more and more since he got pregnant.  (Once, in his first trimester, he’d come—a big, explosive load—just from Dad’s big hand on the small of his back). Dean can’t help twitching his hips, but Sam merely mumbles, half asleep, and clings more possessively.

***

“Wake _up_ , jerk!”

“Nnn,” Sam snuggles deeper into his pillow.  He’s sleep-warm and clingy; Dean is tempted to let him stay, maybe get started on training him a little early.  But his cautious hunter’s mind prevails.  Sammy’s smart and sweet, the sort of good student that teachers look out for.   He’s going to miss plenty of school over the next few months; Dean doesn’t want anyone getting suspicious over a couple of absences now.  

“Get up!”  Dean puts his feet against the wall of the trailer and extends his legs, pushing back against Sam, trying to force him out of bed. 

Sam, sleepy but stubborn, pushes back.  They end up grinding against each other in bed until Dean swivels his hips and bucks his pelvis and catches Sam unaware: his brother pops out of the bed like a cork from a bottle and lands on the floor, morning wood and all.

“Bitch!” Sam grumbles, and he’s just pouting, but something in Dean throbs at hearing the obscenity in his brother’s voice, not even broken yet.  He snuggles down into the pillows, feeling unusually…fuck it, unusually _heavy_.  He stretches the whole length of the shitty mattress, newly aware of his big, gravid form in the empty bed. He feels good.  Dad’s never called him anything like that—bitch, slut, cunt.  Suddenly, Dean wishes he would.

“Dean!”  Sam’s panicked voice intrudes on Dean’s thoughts and Dean cracks one eye.  His brother is standing next to the crate that holds their clothes, half-dressed. The upper half.  His lower half is sporting an erection that refuses to respond to the morning chill.

No delicate way to put this: Sammy is big for his age. _Everywhere_.  Not as big as Dad, and without Dad’s heavy, low-hanging balls, but definitely more than can be concealed in a pair of discount Wal-Mart jeans, or under Sammy’s winter jacket (which has been too short since Sam grew three inches _last_ winter).

“Dean!” Sam says again, sounding horrified.  “What am I gonna…?”

It should be funny—hell, it _is_ funny: Dean will laugh about it later: Sammy standing bare-assed and perplexed in their tiny trailer, staring at his own boner like that will make it shrink.  But that’s later.  Now, like Sam, he knows that they’ve got maybe 10 minutes before the bus is idling in front of the trailer.  Dean’s jerked off once or twice to a twisted fantasy where the bus arrives early and the red-neck driver knocks for Sam instead of just honking the horn, glances through the window, sees Dean moaning on all fours, belly hanging low as Dad plows him relentlessly from behind.  But he and Dad have always made sure Sam is ready and waiting on the front steps when the bus pulls up.  

Fuck!  Dean cannot afford to think about his fantasy now.  Dad’s been gone barely three days and Dean’ll have social workers knocking on the door because his brother’s a horndog. “C’mere,” he says, his voice coming out rough than he means to because his mouth is suddenly flooded with spit.

Sam shuffles wide-legged toward the bed, listening for goddamn _once_ , but he’s so focused on the bobbling red head of his own erect dick that he doesn’t even look at Dean until his brother heaves himself out of the tangled blankets and sinks to his knees.  “Dean!,” Sam gasps for a third time, and the next words out of his mouth are lost in a groan because Dean’s got one hand on the curve of his own belly and one hand on the curve of Sam’s ass and he’s pulling Sam in so he can lick the obscenely flushed tip of Sam’s cock.  He goes at it like a rapidly-melting ice cream cone.  Quick, flickering licks, just getting Sam wet enough for more.  Dean tongues the edge of Sam’s foreskin; Sammy’s uncut, just like he is. (Dad is. And thinking about how big and unfamiliar he had looked the first few times makes Dean hungry for a few more inches of his brother.) Sam’s hips jump, aborted little thrusts that are clumsy enough Dean can tell he’s never done this before.  

Dean pulls off, peeks up through his lashes because he knows how sweetly vulnerable that makes him look, especially with his lips and chin all slick with spit and pre-cum. “S’OK,” he says, voice even rougher now.  “I c’n take you.”

And he can.  Sam’s big for his age, but nothing compared to Dad  (nothing compared to Lee Carter or Tuck McClure, Dad’s old hunting buddies,  nothing compared to Jenner Randall, one of those last-name-for-first-name Baptist high school football phenoms Dean had under the bleachers when he wasn’t much older than Sam is now).  Dean knows just how to open his throat, taking Sam deeper and deeper with each achingly slow pass.  Sam is staring down at him, wide-eyed, gasping for breath.  He doesn’t know what to do with his hands until Dean captures one and sets it on his own shoulder.  Sam’s always been a quick learner:  he brushes Dean’s jaw with his thumb, then cups his head, palm warm on Dean’s nape.  His hips find their rhythm, young and greedy. Dean can hear Sam whispering above him: “Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh fuck,” the word going faster, more and more strangled until Dean’s nose is pressed right up to Sam’s flat, hairless stomach.  Not flat for long, Dean thinks, trailing his fingers up Sam’s trembling thighs , and  his smile at that thought makes Sam cum. 

Sam comes quick and hard—he’s too inexperienced to hold out for long—and Dean laps up every salt-bitter drop.  He’s had a lot of practice, he thinks, lounging on the bed while Sam wanders the trailer in a contented stupor, pulling on his jeans, so dazed he tries to put his boots on the wrong feet, twice. Thanks to the witches’ curse, Dad’s fertile months only happen every four years, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t horny in between times.   He’s still got Sammy’s taste in his mouth when he kisses his brother goodbye (on the mouth this time): “Have a good day at school, jerk.” 

Sammy opens into the kiss, tongue and all. “Dean…” he manages, but then the bus driver is honking and Sam’s out the door.

Alone, Dean crawls back into bed.  Sheets still smell like Sammy.  He shoves a pillow under his knees, runs a hand over his belly.  He’s getting too fucking huge to be on his knees.  Inside, the child—Dad’s newest son—kicks, strong enough now to dimple Dean’s tight skin.  Dad may only be fertile every four years, but then he’s _really_ fertile: six whole months where, every full moon, he’s driven to pour his seed into any human vessel, female or not.  If it hadn’t been for…if Mom hadn’t—well, there should have been a stable of lusty young Winchesters, all boys, all four years apart. 

There’s at least one more out there, Dean knows, his fingers idly circling his stomach, coming up to fiddle his own tits.  He can do math as well as Sammy and four years ago…suffice it to say, Dean knows from personal experience that you can’t have babies ‘til you’re old enough to cum, no matter how hard you try.   Someone else had carried Dad’s baby four years ago, had opened themselves and taken him in and been filled to bursting.   But now it’s Dean’s turn.  Dean and then Sammy; one breeding is not always enough, during the fertile period between the equinoxes.  Dad had told him this, had whispered it into his ear while they lay in this very bed, Dean full and just starting to show.  Dean can feel his own cock thickening against his thigh.  It twitches when he pulls at his nipples. 

“Might need someone else,”  Dad had murmured.  “Specially as we get closer to the fall equinox.  Doesn't meant I love you any less.  Just the way it is.”

And Dean had nodded. A curse, a compulsion, a bone-deep, blood-hot breeding _need_.  Just the way it is. 

“Be so big by then,” Dad had sounded so proud, had tucked Dean's head under his chin and spread his hands Dean's belly, and Dean had been so pleased that he'd simply nodded when Dad had asked, “You'll help?  With Sam?”

Dean shoves the blankets off, the autumn morning chill tickling his bare skin.  He starts to tug his cock, loves holding it under the swell of his stomach.  He'd help.  With Sam.  Hell, he can tastes Sammy on the back of his tongue.  But that doesn't mean he wants to think about it too much. He lets his mind wander…what if the fantasy bus driver isn’t content to watch?  The horn, the rattle of someone knocking on the door, turning the knob, coming to join him and Dad in bed...

**haven't abandoned this...just need to think out the world-building a little more--is this a/b/o, or a supernatural curse? is there a knot? write the birth? so many questions!**


End file.
